Herald the Dawn
by CharredFox
Summary: The story of how that bold, brass instrument, the trumpet, came to be. A gift for a god, created simply to herald the dawn.
1. Prologue

Prologue: To See in Colour

To Speak of Colours

To dance upon the wind as another plane, to court the elements in purest form. To sing with thund'rous overtones, to play the trees as windpipes… to live within the other world.

He stands, a furtive smile flitting over his face, upon the mountain. The air is quiet, save the muse's laughter. She will say nothing, though: a lovers' quarrel, and he is safe.

And so it is that he moves with impunity as he leaps upward, gathering stormcloud in his hands as he goes. His laughter rings, sparkling, mercurial in the skyfields.

When he finally halts, glowing in the exertion and the starlight, there is a sizeable bundle of cloud-stuff under his arm. And, his eyes sparkling, he stops, glancing about; even with his hidden purpose, his motions flow, quicksilver on the dark night sky.

There is a hum, a quiet, beautifully resonant, tone that vibrates through the air. It does not seem to come from him, it ripples through the air, residual thunder shedding from the clouds as he kneads them. The insubstantial wisps glint in the moonlight, silvery against the moonlight, sparkling with unshed rain in places – flashing darkly, here and there.

Soon enough, the clouds take form under his guidance, and he holds a long, forked instrument in one hand, purer than any silver touched by men. It seems to glow under the stars, throwing off yet more light than it is given. His smile, radiant even in the darkness, completes the act.

Then, the sky is silent again. He stands, poised and ready, the long silver raised above his head, waiting. He waits, and waits, and the very stars seem to hold their breath with him. The air is still, the silver lies preparing, ready. The night stretches onward.

A long creak echoes, the splintered white glow moves closer. He tenses, and the fork seems to tremble in his fingers as the moon moves faster, now, prepared to race past them. A moment, no more, and the air changes.

Wild, beyond the scope of thought or control; pure instinctive energy, the air seems charged. He waits still, but the tension stretches.

Then, suddenly, the moment is upon him. The sphere is within reach, that purest form of wildness wherein he finds his match in mischief. A baited breath, no more, and he strikes, the silver fork lightly bouncing, for all its heavy thunder, as it hits. The note is pure, clear, moreso than any note heard in this world. It echoes through the heavens, a ripple in the silence that leaves the heartstrings sounding.

He is satisfied.

The fork is, half reverently, half playfully, hidden in the folds of his tunic as he sets himself carefully between the currents. A moment, a bare and wild grin, and he leaps from the heavens, the wild and untamed winds grabbing at him as he dives, his fall unchecked, from the stars, laughing as only the gods can laugh.


	2. When the Winds Spoke

When the Winds had Names

When the Winds had Names

And he swept down the field, much like a wind himself, and when he stopped, there were mountains in sight. The grasses whispered at the light touch of his feet, wondering. The plain was far and wide and open, and he was glad that the darkness yet covered his motions. The breezes still clung to his aura, here and there, and they, too whispered. He stood, for a moment, lost in thought.

"Hermes, dear brother!"

He turned on his heel to see an amber glow lighting the ground before him, scattering rays across his vision in the darkness. Slowly, the illumination spread upwards to reveal a woman, large and motherly and wearing what, long ago, would have been an unusually bright smile. These days, Hestia always seems bittersweet, somehow.

"Sister! Forgive me, I had not realized you were here."

She wonders. It isn't at all like Hermes, to be so unnecessarily polite. Why avoid the quarrel? He nearly lives for petty arguments. The goddess in the field frowns, folding her arms.

"Indeed I am, and not at all unusually. But you, fleet-foot, what business brings you hurtling from the stars like one of our Brother's thunderbolts?"

An easy smile, a characteristic, carefree shrug. She couldn't possibly have seen him, anyhow, he knows. "Simply the mischief of it, dear lady!"

Hestia ponders this. You cannot trust him, and if he is in mischief, as per usual, someone, somewhere, had best be on their guard. But he cannot be watched, she knows from long experience. It is not in his nature; the trickster god, all wings and words that melt on the ear and flippant smiles, slides through the grasp like quicksilver.

"I see. Who runs from your mind this night, brother?" He laughs.

"I merely seek out my young nephew," he replies, and although she knows all too well that laugh, that familiar quirk of the mouth, and in turn knows the tip of the iceberg when she sees it.

But the goddess of the field is no gossip, and she only shakes her head. "I wish you luck then, my brother!" She'll know soon enough, anyway – most likely, the world from Troy to Pylos will. Hermes can be slick, secretive, but he always comes out flashy, in the end.

She turns back to her abode, hidden in the waving grasses, and disappears under the field's surface, leaving only a lingering amber light in her wake, which the darkness soon soaks up. Hermes smiles to himself and raises his face to the mountains, where the winds play between the peaks of stone. In a moment, he is lightly running across the fields, leaving even the swiftest breezes behind him.

The night begins to fade, and the first golden rays filtering through the clouds find the god standing at the base of the range, grinning cockily up at the towering peaks. The flocks of graying clouds will hide him from view, and the lightly falling snow as he begins to climb, springing like a goat up the path, only serves to cheer him further.

Some hours later, the loud howls reach his ears as he grabs for another hold on the steep cliff. Echoes, in the rocks. Although the tearing screams are enough to make most men think of demons, in the shadows of the deeper mountains, he only smiles.

"Boreas!" The wind tears the sound from his lips, carrying it off into the far hollows of the mountainside. He shouts again, cupping his hands around his mouth and trusting to his balance to grip the cliff. The wild winds wisely avoid him for that moment; too many tales are known of bags of wind, sold to sailors, for them to consider unseating a god.

There is suddenly an unsettling quiet—the winds seem to flee, leaving him in a small pocket of utterly calm air. Then, as quickly, he is pressed against the cliff, gasping for a moment with the sheer cold—enough to steal the breath of even a higher god. The clouds surrounding the mountain are white, more like the ice that they drop than the opaque gray. He closes his eyes for a moment, and then the howling laughter reaches his ears.

Only for a moment, though, the sound rings around him. Then, there is a sudden silence, eerily, as the swirling clouds form a face, strong-jawed, bearded face, stern and fey like the wild, wandering barbarians of the North. In the light, it looks to be perpetually rushing forward, or pushing against a strong wind, sweeping the clouds around it back and back, leaving the face surrounded by a rushing snowy sea, as it were.

"Hermes." Almost a nod in the face, and the god sketches a bow in return, despite his precarious position. Courtesy is always wise in the face of such raw, violent power.

"Boreas. It is good to see you again!"

The face nearly smiles, but then, one is never sure with the winds. "What brings you here to my palace, messenger? A favor for my city, or a complaint of my children?"

Hermes smiles in return, just to be safe. "I have no news for you today, my friend, only a request—have you, in your care, a youth? Faenus, by name…" he trails off.

The clouds swirl, the face disappearing in a suddenly opaque sea. Out of the clouded sky, which settles as quickly as it had begun to churn, steps Boreas himself, the same face on the body of a man—but no man, any mortal could tell. There is a bluish tinge in the skin, and the body itself is a full seven feet, and looking stronger than any mortal man has a right to look. Hermes notes that he still appears as though constantly swept by a rushing wind. The immense wings behind him stir, swishing gently up and down in the air currents.

"I have. Why are you here, Hermes?" As he'd hoped, curiosity seems to be getting the better of the Wind.

"He was sired by my older brother, I believe?"

Boreas frowns and reaches a hand out for his friend, inasmuch as anyone could claim the right. The messenger of the gods steps out onto the open air, and allows the North Wind to lead him down into a deep cave in the side of the mountain. The farther edges of the rocks echo distantly, the same howls that are cried outside the cave.

"You know that he was. Apollo's son, in more than name. Why are you here?"

"Cannot an uncle show his concern? He has been here for three years, if my reckoning errs not." The tunnel dipped sharply, and firelight began to mingle with the cold gray light that the stone seemed to give off.

Boreas glances at him, looking relatively uncomfortable. "You have more nephews than I have mountains, Hermes. My patience grows thin, friend—why are you here?"

Hermes gives him a wide grin. "You judge too sharply, Boreas! If you will, then. I am here because I need an able craftsman, and word has whispered that Faenus is as good as his heritage might hint."

They reach the end of the tunnel, and as the cave comes fully into view, Hermes catches sight of a boy, maybe nineteen years, staring into the fire.


End file.
